


I'll See You (in my dreams)

by page_of_wands



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Harry's afraid Draco will leave him), (but he won't), (kind of), Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Fluff, Healthy Relationships, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, mostly drarry fluffy things, supportive boyfriends, there's some implicit smut but nothing overly graphic, we love us some happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 05:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17115398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/page_of_wands/pseuds/page_of_wands
Summary: the title makes it sound sad but I swear it isn't (unless you count retellings of Harry's past as sad)(which it is, but there's nothing new there)





	I'll See You (in my dreams)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a oneshot featuring 1) haunting past experiences, 2) angst that gets resolved, and 3) a fluffy makeout session. I think it's real cute and I hope y'all like it.

Harry finally gave up and took off his glasses, setting them down on the parchment in front of him and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and sighed; hunting for horcruxes, killing Voldemort, and saving the wizarding world didn’t stand a chance against the horrors of potions homework. He had been sitting in the same chair for two hours, trying to decipher the assigned reading while slowly dissolving into a pile of uncomprehending putty.

 

When Harry opened his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice a pair of grey eyes staring at him from out of the corner of his gaze. He stared stubbornly at the fire, knowing who it was and refusing to give him the satisfaction.

 

This was the third time that week Draco had tried to catch his attention in the common room. It wasn’t the Gryffindor common room, of course; there had been so few eighth years returning to Hogwarts that they had been able to form their own makeshift house. It had been strangely easy to grow accustomed to the arrangements. After all, even if they had been divided by house before the war, they were in the same year, and everyone gone through the same trauma of the war. Rubbish bonding material, but common ground nonetheless.

 

The first time Draco had pulled this stunt, Harry had confusedly given in and looked right back. Bloody Malfoy hadn’t done anything except get up and announce that he was retiring for the night. The wanker had _known_ that Harry wouldn’t be able to get any work done after that, tormented by the knowledge that Draco was awake and in bed and not doing anything—perfect circumstances to slip into bed with him. And it had been early enough that no one else would be going to bed, so the chances of getting caught were slim to none.

 

It was safe to say Harry didn’t get any work done that night.

 

The second time, he had accidentally looked up again, but that time he was determined not to give in so quickly. So Draco had gone to bed, and Harry stayed where he was, but he was so distracted, he might as well have gone to bed early, too.

 

This time, Harry wasn’t even going to look up. He was going to do the reading, and then write his Defence essay, and then, if Draco’s bunkmates were still working, and _only_ if they were still working, _then_ he would allow himself to see Draco.

 

Except it seemed Malfoy had caught onto his tactic, for he got up, but instead of going to bed, he moved to Harry’s side of the room and sat directly at his feet—facing the fire. Harry glared at his back, simultaneously hating his genius and aching for it.

 

 _Not this time,_ Harry thought decisively. He snapped the potions textbook shut with vigor, stood up, and proclaimed, “I think I’ll head to bed.” Draco stiffened but didn’t do anything.

 

“Did you finish that passage about the effects of asphodel on wormwood?” Hermione asked with a frown.

 

“No, but I have a free period tomorrow,” Harry said confidently. Hermione made a disapproving sound, but didn’t dispute it. She had been getting lax lately, and judging by the way she and Ron were sharing heated looks, Harry wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Which was foolish. Of course it was, he was happy for them, and they deserved some peace, but—

 

But nothing. Harry gathered his things into his bag, slow enough to watch Draco’s reaction. Or rather, his lack of a reaction. He only moved to warm his hands by the fire, though there were enough warming charms on the room to make such an action unnecessary. Harry narrowed his eyes, and then turned on his heel and made his way back to his room.

 

Of course, he still shared a room with others: Ron, naturally, as well as Terry Boot, Dean Thomas, and Zacharias Smith. McGonagall had tried to distribute an even amount of students from each house, to encourage unity between houses, but there were so few Slytherins that had opted to return that there were many rooms that were lacking. And even though all of them were legally adults, they were still separated by gender, much to the chagrin of the couples in their year.

 

Harry didn’t care so much about that, but he bitterly wished that a certain Slytherin had been assigned to his dorm.

 

He brushed off the whim, gathering his things to take a shower. Whatever Draco had in mind whenever he pulled these sort of tricks, Harry had meant what he’d said about going to bed. It was still early, though, too early to sleep, and he took his time in the shower.

 

When he got out, glasses slightly steamed up and his wet hair sticking up, Draco was lounging on his bed. _Wanker_ , Harry thought fondly, setting his things down.

 

“Finally,” Draco drawled, flipping a page in the textbook he was reading. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be Harry’s potions textbook—the very one he’d been struggling to get through earlier. “You were in there so long I thought you’d give the water heating charms a run for their money.”

 

“You’re one to talk,” Harry retorted, crawling into bed next to him and turned his head to see what he was reading. Draco snapped the book shut just in time and slid down the bed so he could turn and meet Harry’s eyes. “You spend much longer just working on your hair every morning,” he pointed out quietly, absorbing the proximity to Draco and the unrestrained lack of expectation in the air.

 

“This sort of beauty isn’t easy to maintain,” Draco replied, but his normal caustic tone was missing. He, too, was staring, and when Harry poked his shin with his toe, he wrapped his entire leg around Harry’s to draw him in closer. Harry wrapped his arm around Draco’s side in response, and happily buried his head against his chest. Draco sniffed and muttered a warming charm, and then his hair was dry. Harry grinned, and when Draco started carding his hand through his now-warm hair, the last of the tension between his shoulders drained away.

 

Draco whispered again, and he heard the curtains around his bed whisper to a close and felt the wards he put up nightly flicker into being. He also slid his fingers up Harry’s back, between his skin and the back of his shirt, and Harry made a little encouraging sound.

 

“Where are your bunkmates going to be tonight, hmm?” Draco asked, his mouth pressed against the crown of Harry’s head.

 

“Ron’s with Hermione, and Dean’s with Seamus,” Harry murmured into Draco’s robes. “Smith snores like a giant, and Boot won’t be in until two.” Draco made an approving noise.

 

“This is why your dorm is better than mine,” Draco informed him, his fingers starting to trace patterns against Harry’s back.

 

“Was that what you were trying to do?” Harry asked, opening his eyes and looking up at Draco inquisitively, who ignored him.

 

“I wasn’t doing anything,” he denied, using his leg as leverage to flip Harry onto his back, effectively pinning him under his weight.

 

“Yes you were,” Harry persisted, even as Draco started unbuttoning his shirt. “What were those eye games all about?”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco said blandly, and mouthed against his collarbone. Harry released a sharp gust of air at that, but was determined to get an answer out of him. He wriggled until he was free enough to wrap his legs around Draco and then pulled him close, close enough for him to feel that Draco was half-hard, and for Draco to feel that he was already sporting a somewhat impressive erection.

 

Something in Draco’s resolve seemed to crumble, and his mouth moved down to Harry’s nipples, licking and teasing them in a near frantic way. Harry warred between triumphant and lust, and tried to remember his earlier tenacity.

 

“Your games,” he said breathily, desperately. “You were staring. At me. In the common room.”

 

“God, yes,” was Draco’s only reply, though that may have had more to do with how Harry had stripped Draco’s shirt off over his head. He started to move lower, but Harry tightened his grip around Draco with his legs, holding him in place.

 

Draco just stared at him. His usually pristine hair was mussed, and his eyes were dark with want, and his lips were pink from wear against Harry’s skin, and Merlin, Harry could have come just from that look.

 

Then, surprising Harry entirely, Draco went from sliding down to surging up at him, and then his hands were on his face, and his lips were mashed up against his, and his _tongue_ was in his _mouth_ —and it was messy and perfect.

 

“Do you even know,” Draco growled between kisses, which made Harry melt against the sheets, “how hard it is—to see you in class—with all your idiotic friends—” Harry protested at this, but was silenced by another kiss “—and know that if I wanted to—I could have you in a closet—” Harry shuddered here “—and you would _beg_ for it?”

 

Draco moved his mouth to the sensitive spot just under his right ear, and Harry ground his hips up into Draco’s, moaning in appreciation. The silencing wards went up without so much as a whisper, and Draco huffed a laugh into his skin.

 

“Bless your wordless magic,” Draco continued, his tongue lazily tracing shapes under his ear.

 

“God, Draco, enough, just fuck me already,” Harry gasped out, trying to sound like he wasn’t pleading and failing spectacularly. He thrust his hips again, and was pleased to hear Draco’s answering groan. Jesus, _he’d_ done that to him.

 

Draco’s hands crept under his pants, and then his fingers were tight around his cock, and _God_ , that had been a long time coming.

 

Wordless or not, the silencing ward held up through the night, and when Terry finally crawled into the dorm at three twenty-seven in the morning, Harry had fallen into an exhausted sleep, alone but thoroughly shagged.

 

-

 

Things had been like that for months, and they continued to rut like rabbits whenever their friends had their backs turned. It really was fantastic sex, but every morning Harry was both disappointed and relieved to see that Draco hadn’t spent the night.

 

It made sense, of course. If Ron found Draco in Harry’s bed, with Harry present as well, the whole castle would hear of it, and if Blaise or Goyle discovered Draco’s absence, he’d be given hell for the rest of the term. Never mind what would happen if McGonagall ever found out, or if there was a spot check in the dorms, not that that had happened even once since the start of term.

 

It was the smart thing. But that didn’t mean Harry didn’t want to wake up next to him at least _once_ in all their glorious shagging.

 

He brought it up a few weeks later. Christmas holidays were coming up, and Draco had already said he was going to the Manor to help his mother with the repairs. Harry would be staying at Hogwarts, as usual, and he was already dreading the loss of their nightly meetings.

 

A part of him wondered when Draco had become such an integral part in his life, but another part of him smartly told him not to question it.

 

Draco had done nothing when Harry had brought it up. He’d just stiffened a little, and his eyes stares off into the distance. “Not that you have to, of course,” Harry backtracked. “I just thought, before the hols…” He chewed his lip and waited for Draco to say something.

 

There was a heart-stopping moment of silence, and then Draco said, “It would have to be a weekend, so I could go back to the dorms late.” It had taken a moment for Harry to understand, but then he realized Draco had agreed to spend the night with him, and he’d pulled him into a snogging session that lasted quite a bit longer than necessary. Not that either of them were complaining.

 

 

 

It was a bit like having a sleepover, only better, because there was sex instead of Truth or Dare. After a few hours of getting the hell shagged out of him, Harry just threw his head back and said, “That’s it. I’m done. I don’t think another round is even physically possible.” Of course Malfoy’s eyes lit up, and he took that as a challenge, but Harry landed a kiss on his face and said, “And there’s always tomorrow morning,” which for some reason softened Draco’s eyes and convinced him to settle down for the night.

 

Two nearly full-grown men in one twin-sized cot was another thing that should’ve been physically impossible, but with Draco acting as the big spoon, they made it work. Harry squirmed closer to Draco, and then relaxed when he was content with his position. After that, he drifted off to sleep without a problem.

 

-

 

Draco felt it when Harry fell asleep. His breathing slowed down, and his entire body became less tense, and even his face smoothed out. He smiled to himself and hugged Harry a bit closer, wondering at how easy it was for him to just let go.

 

Staying the night really had been a brilliant idea. At first Draco had been hesitant, worried about his occlumency falling down, but in this state, Harry wasn’t likely to be prying at his mental walls, and there were wards around the cot that he had inspected himself, and honestly, Potter’s bunkmates were far less likely to do that sort of thing in the middle of the night to unsuspecting victims than his own were.

 

There was the added bonus that he really was looking forward to waking Harry up as slowly and unhurriedly as he’d like. With that thought in mind, Draco let his eyes fall shut and his mind wander freely.

 

 

 

There was incomprehensible shouting, and Draco didn’t recognize the voices. Slowly, the words began making sense.

 

“…just like her—a _freak_! An abnormality!” The words were spat with so much venom, Draco was taken aback. Never had he heard such outright hatred. Anger, perhaps, but never sheer, unchecked disgust.

 

There were two people looming in front of him: a woman and a man. The woman was thin and bird-like, and she was the one who’s been yelling; the man was obese and mustached, and turning a stately shade of purple as he took over shouting.

 

“Your no-good father was the same,” he snarled. “Talentless, worthless, and you’re no better!”

 

They kept trading off insults, and Draco realized it wasn’t him they were shouting at, but a boy huddled at his feet. The boy was hugging his knees and crying soundlessly, and when Draco saw the unforgettable scar on his forehead, several things suddenly made sense.

 

This was Harry, but it wasn’t really Harry, because this was only a dream, and _this was what Harry dreamt about_.

 

Draco scooped boy-Harry into his arms and tried to say something equally biting to the people before him, but realized this was one of those dreams where you couldn’t say anything. Boy-Harry shook in his arms, and the only thing Draco could think to do was slam the door that was for some reason off to his right. They were immediately standing in pitch darkness.

 

The shouting continued from outside the door, until very suddenly it stopped. But even though the nightmare should’ve been over, Harry’s little arms tightened around his neck until Draco was fairly certain he was going to suffocate like that. Boy-Harry whimpered into his neck, and Draco took that to mean he could speak again.

 

“Shh, it’s alright, they’re gone now,” he offered, trying to sound soothing. He wasn’t sure how to go about that, but figured rubbing his back would help. Harry’s shaking only intensified.

One of Draco’s hands supported boy-Harry, and the spare one started searching about for a light. It found something, but then another something started crawling across his fingers, and Draco jumped and shook his hand violently.

 

“Spiders,” boy-Harry whispered. Draco was glad of the darkness for a second, because it hid his horrified face from boy-Harry. Where the _hell_ had this come from? He had taken divination fifth year with all the rest, and nightmares were always rooted in something. Tomorrow, he resolved, after waking up Harry, they were going to have a conversation about this.

 

Draco felt the walls pressing in on them— _physically_. Boy-Harry just cringed, and Draco’s searching for a light became more desperate. He supposed he could add claustrophobia and arachnophobia to the list Harry’s fears he was currently experiencing.

 

Finally, Draco’s hand found a string hanging from the ceiling, and he sharply yanked on it, fully expecting light to blossom in the room. Instead, their surroundings changed entirely.

 

It was during the day, and there were people bustling around them, and—was this a muggle train station? It had to be, because Draco didn’t recognize any of the fashions around him, and prided himself on being up to date on such things.

 

He was no longer holding Harry, who stood beside him in oversized clothing peering nervously at the brick wall in front of them. He was taller than he’d been just seconds ago, but still much younger than Draco. The signs on either side of the brick wall pronounced platforms 9 and 10, and Draco suddenly got it: they were at platform 9 ¾. Or they were going to be, once they stepped through the wall.

 

Draco tugged the younger Harry forward by the hand. “Come on, it’s just through the wall,” he told him, confused. As they watched, the Weasley family walked right through it with no problem at all. “See? Like that.” Harry looked longingly after the redheads, and Draco didn’t know what his problem was. “Here, I’ll show you.”

 

He strode forward, not going to walk through it without Harry’s hand firmly in his, but determined to show him how the wall worked. He stuck out a hand expectantly—and withdrew it just as quickly, knuckles stinging from the impact of flesh on brick. Draco stared at it, dumbstruck.

 

He hadn’t gone through. The wall was firmly brick. He hit it again with the palm of his hand, but it didn’t give in. Draco looked up, ensuring that the signs did, indeed, say 9 and 10, and they suddenly loomed above him, as dream-things were wont to do. He heard a sound, and when he looked down, Harry was trying to push his way through the wall, crying and sobbing when it wouldn’t let him in.

 

With a flash of understanding, Draco got it; the fear that he wouldn’t be able to go to Hogwarts.

 

Just as things were starting to make sense, the scenery changed again. Harry seemed to be the same age, but now he was wearing properly fitting wizarding robes instead of those awful muggle clothes he’d had on before. Draco looked around and recognized the surroundings as Hogwarts.

 

Dumbledore was standing before them, smiling sadly down at Harry.

 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he was saying, “but it seems there’s been an error. Your letters were meant for another Harry Potter, a real wizard. It was a mix-up with our files. You’ll have to go back and live with your relatives forever.”

 

Which was of course not how Dumbledore would have said it at all, but Harry was as upset as if it was true. Draco opened his mouth to mock this dream Dumbledore in retaliation, but before he could say anything, Snape appeared behind Dumbledore and sniffed righteously.

 

“I knew you weren’t a real wizard,” he said with the same disdain Draco remembered. “You aren’t nearly as good with potions as a _real_ wizard would be. You’re all wrong for this kind of place.”

 

Young Harry let out a wail, and then the surroundings changed again.

 

Draco stopped paying attention to this next horror and started trying to figure out a way for them to wake up. He was highly tired of seeing Harry alternately terrified and disappointed with everything that came to pass. But even with his not-unimpressive skill in legilimency, he couldn’t find the seams of the nightmare; he’d been in the dream for too long, and now he was a part of it. The only things to do was to ride it out until it had run its course.

 

It had taken him several minutes to figure this out, and he’d felt the dreams change again, but he was snapped out of his reverie by the words “Kill the spare,” spoken in a voice he thought he’d never hear again.

 

It was foolish, it seemed, to think that the dreams of the Chosen One wouldn’t feature the Dark Lord.

 

Draco’s eyes snapped open in time to see a figure cloaked in black whisper the killing curse and a familiar jet of green shoot out to hit—

 

Not Harry, not Harry, not Harry, a part of him chanted in glee. Because it wasn’t Harry who’d been killed, but Cedric Diggory. Draco didn’t even feel bad about it, because Cedric’s death was old news, and it meant he didn’t have to watch Harry die.

 

But Draco saw Harry shaking Cedric’s body, useless of course, but heartbreaking in its earnestness. Tears were flying everywhere, and Draco realized that this version of Harry was only fourteen. And at fourteen, it wasn’t even the first time he’d seen someone die.

 

“Cedric, no, wake _up_!” he was saying frantically, tears flying everywhere, and Draco just wanted to bundle him up in a hug and hex anyone who had featured in these nightmares, anyone who had contributed to the fears his lover was forced to relive every night.

 

The graveyard disappeared and was replaced by a pink office with kittens on the walls. _Umbridge’s office?_ Draco recognized, highly confused. To him, this had been a welcome place; a place where his potential had been seen and he’d been put in a place of power. _The Inquisitorial Squad,_ he thought fondly.

 

But this place held no such memories for Harry, it seemed. He was hunched over at a desk, writing lines, it seemed like. Umbridge was facing away from him, drinking tea and looking through the window, and Harry shuddered with every letter he engraved on the parchment. Draco leaned over his shoulder, an unseen observer, to get a look at what he was writing.

 

 _I must not tell lies._ The parchment was three quarters full, each line holding four copies of the same sentence and each line repeating the last. The quill was black, and the ink was red, and he saw with no small amount of revulsion that Harry’s hand was bleeding, the words _carved into his flesh_.

 

It was terrifying in its genius. More painful and more discreet than any trans-species punishment Moody had inflicted on him. And Harry—he still bore this scar, Draco knew, because he had traced the scar time after time and wondered where it had come from. And now, 15-year-old Harry was biting his lip, tears welling in his eyes, but too damn stoic to speak up for himself. Was this another one of his fears? Being forced to do something he didn’t want to do? Or was it more than that, being unable to speak up for himself?

 

Dammit, this was illegal! If Draco was able to sue for being attacked by a hippogriff, then Harry sure as well should’ve had some sort of compensation for this positively _medieval_  torture tactic!

 

Draco was just about to hex Umbridge when the office disappeared and was replaced by a shadowy corridor. If this was going in chronological order, then this was surely the Department of Mysteries.

 

This went on for a while. Draco watched Harry fall apart when Sirius died, someone who he barely recognized as a disowned cousin of sorts. He saw how Harry had to force-feed Dumbledore the Drink of Despair and then fight off a hoard of Inferi on his own, because in this dream, Dumbledore died after drinking the potion. He saw the golden trio in a tent and Ron and Hermione both walking out on Harry, who was alternately devastated and infuriated. Countless tragedies and heartbreaks and things Draco didn’t even know about.

 

At one point, Draco realized they had transitioned from real events to murky fears of the future. He saw ghosts of the fallen show up at Hogwarts, and Harry running through the hallways, trying to avoid the wails of people Draco faintly recognized but obviously meant a great deal to Harry. One of them was Professor Lupin, oddly enough.

 

Another dream showed Harry eating breakfast in the great hall, and then receiving a copy of the Daily Prophet where the headline blatantly exclaimed to the world, COULD THE CHOSEN ONE HAVE HOMOSEXUAL TENDENCIES? There wasn’t a picture on the cover, but when Harry looked up in obvious dismay, everyone in the great hall had turned to give him a weird look. _Oh._ Draco could understand that one, though he hadn’t thought Harry, having grown up with his name in the papers, would be fazed by wild speculations about his personal life showing up on the front page (especially since they were untrue; obviously he was bisexual).

 

The next one, though, was the hardest for Draco to watch. Harder than when boy-Harry was cowering against his chest, and harder than when he watched Harry write in his own blood.

 

This was the first dream where Draco saw himself through Harry’s eyes.

 

They were standing in Harry’s dorm, and no one else was there. Harry was as Draco knew him now, and he was facing off against the Other Draco. Draco sat down on Harry’s bed in shock.

 

Other Draco looked a lot like Draco. He had the same hair and the same complexion, but his eyes were cold, colder than he’d ever looked at Harry with, even during the six-year-long bullying phase. He was taller, too, and less approachable. Draco didn’t like Other Draco.

 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked reluctantly. Like a horse shying away from a fire, except this wasn’t a fire, it was _him_.

 

Other Draco let out a laugh that was terrifying in its iciness. It sent shivers down Draco’s spine, not because it was cruel (though it was), but because it was familiar. “Oh please,” he sneered. “As if I would ever stick around. You’re lucky I even stayed this long.”

 

“You’re leaving,” Harry said, and his tone was emotionless. This was familiar, too; Draco heard it any time Harry was hurt and trying not to let it show. It had been months— _months—_ since he’d heard it directed at him, though. He’d have thought that at this point, he would’ve been fresh out of empathy, but Draco’s heart twisted at the thought that _he_ was one of Harry’s nightmares.

 

It got so much worse.

 

“Of course I’m leaving,” Other Draco was saying. “You didn’t think I _loved_ you, did you? You’re just a fling, before we leave Hogwarts and go out into the _real_ world.” Other Draco snapped his trunk shut, where it sat on the bed. “I’ll marry some witch—probably Greengrass, our families have always gotten on rather well—and we’ll have loads of children together—you know, to carry on the Malfoy legacy—and you will have been nothing more than an ill-advised page of my past that _no one_ will ever know about.”

 

Harry’s hands were hidden behind his back, but from where Draco was sitting, he could see them shaking. “Right, course,” Harry said flatly. Shrinking down, trying to avoid being hurt. Draco wondered if this was something he’d picked up when living with those muggles, from the first nightmare.

 

“Brilliant. I’ll just be leaving then.” Then, unbelievably, Other Draco just walked away. Like he wasn’t utterly infatuated with the boy in front of him. Like he hadn’t even seen just how badly off Harry was, or if he did, didn’t care enough to do anything about it.

 

That was undoubtedly the worst trait of Other Draco; he’d known what he was doing, and then he did it anyway—with _glee_.

 

Draco looked back at Harry, who hadn’t moved. He got up to face him, to say something, to tell him he loved him, to reassure him that this wouldn’t ever happen in a million years, but the look on Harry’s face as tears slid down his cheeks… Draco knew, suddenly, that this image would never leave him for as long as he lived.

 

Draco leaned forward to kiss this new, heartbroken Harry, and just before their lips made contact, he opened his eyes, and sunlight was peeking through the curtains, and Draco knew without a doubt that the nightmare was over.

 

Harry was sleeping underneath him, eyelashes fluttering uncertainly but still entrenched in slumber. The sheets under his face were wet, and Draco _knew_ he’d been crying in his sleep.

 

And then he set to waking him up.

 

-

 

Harry was aware of Draco before he was even aware that he was awake. There was something soft pressed against the junction where his leg met his groin, and then something wet flicked out against his skin, and Harry grinned. Draco’s fingers toyed with his balls, and he hummed against his skin when he felt Harry’s cock perking up in interest.

 

“Good morning,” Harry breathed sleepily when Draco moved his mouth back up to pepper kisses along his neck.

 

“Mmm,” Draco said, but didn’t reply. Instead he sucked a hickey at a place that was high enough up that he knew it would be seen, even after Harry got dressed and did his collar up. He nipped with his teeth at his handiwork when he saw how well-placed it was.

 

“What was that for?” Harry yawned when Draco had moved on. Not that he minded in the least; actually, if he was being honest, he quite liked the idea that everyone would see the mark and know that he was someone else’s.

 

Draco put his hands on either side of Harry’s head and hovered above him, their faces inches apart.

 

“We need to talk,” he said in a low tone that Harry had come to associate with danger. Any trace of sleepiness was immediately gone. _This is it_ , Harry thought, even though Draco had just had his lips all over him. A sense of dreaded, inevitable finality settled over him like a horrible blanket. It’s all he could think: _this is it._

 

Then Draco leaned in, firmly kissing Harry, and even letting his lips linger there. That was uncharacteristic; normally with Draco it was fast and hot and left Harry longing for more, but this kiss was the exact opposite. The way Draco kissed him was slow and sweet, like there was nothing else he wanted to do and nowhere else he wanted to be except here and doing this and doing this with _him._ Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t like the change in pace.

 

When Draco withdrew, it was just far enough for him to speak, and even then, his breath ghosted over Harry’s mouth with every word. “I love you, and it’s not that kind of talk, so you can stop panicking.”

 

Several things stuck out at Harry just then: that was the first time Draco had ever said those _precise three words_ , and how had he known so quickly that that was where his mind would go to? He stayed quiet long enough for Draco to say the next part without interruption.

 

“Last night I was in your dreams.” Draco said this very carefully and slowly. Harry looked up at him cryptically.

 

“You’re always in my dreams,” he grinned cheekily, flirtatiously. Draco kissed the corners of his mouth where a smile had been playing, and then corrected himself.

 

“I mean, last night I witnessed your dreams.” Harry didn’t have a reply for that one. All of them? Some of them? How many? How did that even—

 

“Sorry?” he asked, his voice a bit higher than usual. Draco just watched him with something that looked like sadness in his eyes.

 

“Last night. I didn’t have any dreams. But I saw all of yours.” An embarrassed blush was rising to his cheeks, he could just _feel_ it.

 

“Maybe you were just dreaming that you were in my dreams,” Harry tried, but Draco’s mouth tightened in a way that meant they both knew it wasn’t true.

 

“Harry,” he said more seriously, “I saw awful muggles yelling at you, and Cedric dying, and this dumb headline about you being gay, and—”

 

“Alright, alright, I believe you,” Harry said. He was suddenly having a hard time looking Draco in the eyes.

 

“Hey,” Draco said, leaning in until there was nowhere else he could look to.

 

“ _What?_ ” Harry asked, unable to help feeling a little powerless. Draco loomed over him, unrelenting, and he lashed out a little. “What do you want me to say? _Guess what, Draco, I’ve got abandonment issues and claustrophobia and I’m scared of the dark, wanna have sex now?_ ”

 

“I don’t want you to say anything,” Draco murmured. His voice was made quieter by the contrast of Harry’s near shouting just moments before. “I just want you to listen.”

 

“I’m all ears,” Harry snapped, still feeling uncomfortably on display.

 

“Good.” Draco shifted his weight a little and leaned away so he wasn’t so in-his-face, but generally stayed where he was, leaning just above him so Harry couldn’t get up and walk away.

 

“First of all, if those horrid muggles are really your only relatives, then either I’m staying at Hogwarts for Christmas or you’re coming to the Manor with me.” Harry’s heart soared at the words, and he knew there was no chance he was walking away from whatever else Malfoy had to say. “Second of all, I don’t give a damn if you’re scared of the dark, or if you have claustrophobia. Everyone’s scared of something, and you’ve got more right than most to have some irrational fears.”

 

“What’re you—”

 

“Being poor, obviously,” Draco sniffed indignantly, though the shit-eating smirk on his face said otherwise. “Third, you've lived through seven types of hell, and I think Dumbledore’s a piece of shite for putting you through it all. Fourth,” he spoke over Harry’s weak protests, “even if the Daily Prophet tells the world you’re gay, it doesn’t matter what anyone else says, because it’s great and I’d say that really worked out in your favor anyhow.” Harry laughed and felt impossibly light.

 

“And lastly, I’m not leaving you. I like you quite a bit, and it would be highly counter-intuitive—mmph.”

 

At this point, Harry wrapped all of his limbs around Draco’s body and pulled him to the bed, where he could climb on top of him and snog the living daylights out of him.

 

“Draco bloody Malfoy,” Harry breathed happily when he was quite finished.

 

“I’ll have you know “bloody” is not my middle name,” Draco rolled his eyes, but was grinning.

 

“Oh, I know, Draco Lucius—”

 

“Yes, yes, we’ve heard the spiel before,” Draco waved an impatient hand. “What is it?”

 

“I quite like you, too,” Harry said. And the simple way he said this, with so much uncontained delight—especially after Draco had just witnessed firsthand the kind of trauma that he’d lived through—after all that, the way he said that was almost unbelievable. “In fact,” Harry continued triumphantly, “I may love you. Very much, I think.”

 

“Perfect,” Draco replied, smiling. “What do you say you come and meet the parents over the hols? I think Mum would take a fancy to you.”

 

“I think so, too.” Harry said, and there was a twinkle in his eye that Draco would make him explain later.

 

Because just then, they found themselves a bit too preoccupied with tongues and lips and other snogging-related things like that.


End file.
